The Leaving Of Liverpool (32 page)

 

Christina was delighted to see them back. The Duesenberg was resurrected from the garage and Eric returned to work for the Blinkers. Lizzie immediately threw herself into the campaign to elect Franklin Delano Roosevelt as the next President of the United States. Not only had he promised the country a New Deal, but had vowed to repeal Prohibition.

For the first few days, all Anne did was stroll dreamily through Central Park where children played and lovers kissed and people picnicked or slept inside the long shadows that spread over the grass, breathing in the fresh scent of flowers, the smell of cut grass and the hint of cigars. She was pleased to discover that Mr Schultz had got a job and no longer lived in the Hoovervilles. Lev came to the apartment for dinner and she described to him the horrors of Los Angeles compared to the pleasures of New York.

One morning, she woke up to the smell of greasepaint and the sound of a thousand feet tapping away - possibly the remnant of a lovely dream that had lost itself in sleep. She jumped out of bed, threw on some clothes, and caught a cab to 42nd Street.
That
was where she belonged, not just in New York, but Broadway: theatreland. As the cab neared its destination, she felt the same rush of excitement as she did while waiting for the curtain to go up or was about to do a number that would stop the show.

She alighted from the cab when the driver turned into 42nd Street from Times Square and looked to see what was on:
Girl Crazy
with Ginger Rogers and Ethel Merman;
Mourning Becomes Electra
, a new play by Eugene O’Neill. Her eyes popped when she saw the posters outside the Classic for
Roses are Red
. ‘But Ollie said it was closing,’ she said aloud. She walked up and down in front of the theatre, studying the posters. Flip Ungar had third billing after Eric Carrington and Patricia Peters, followed by Rosalind Raines. There was no mention of Zeke Penn. It was too early for the box office to be open, but there was no doubt that the theatre was still in business.
Roses are Red
hadn’t closed. Ollie had lied.

Why?’

 

‘Because Herbie was about to be dumped, that’s why,’ Lev explained when she went to see him in his office. She hoped she wasn’t interrupting anything important and was relieved when he appeared extremely pleased to see her. In return, she wanted to cover his face with a hundred kisses. ‘Conrad Abel told me. He didn’t want Herbie to be hurt, so he decided to move his entire family to California.’

‘
I
wasn’t part of his family, not then,’ Anne said indignantly. ‘I could have gone later when my understudy was ready to take my place.’ She frowned. ‘I might not have gone at all. Ollie didn’t give us time to make up our minds.’

‘He did that deliberately, darling. It was imperative that you went with them because Herbie needed you. He’d never have got as far as he did in the theatre without you.’

‘But he’s much better in movies than me, much more natural. It didn’t bother him when we had to shoot scenes over and over again.’ Her face broke into a delighted smile. ‘That means he and Ollie won’t mind that I’ve come back to New York, will they?’

‘Not all that much, no.’

They both decided that Ollie wasn’t nearly as bad as Conrad Abel painted him, or as nice as they’d always thought him, but somewhere in between. He was still Anne’s father-in-law and Levon’s friend.

 

Anne was beginning to feel restless. Her feet itched to dance and her throat to sing. It was a relief when Conrad Abel called and invited her to dinner.

‘I’m leaving
Roses are Red
in the fall,’ he announced during the meal. ‘I’ve been asked to produce a new show,
Orchids for My Lady
. It opens in December and I’d like you for the leading lady. Flip Ungar’s already accepted the leading man’s part. You wouldn’t have to audition; I just know you’d be perfect.’ He flicked the ash of his cigar onto the carpet. ‘Think about it, Anne. I need to have your decision at the very earliest.’

‘You can have it now,’ she said, her voice thick with excitement. ‘It’s yes.’ She couldn’t wait to get back on the stage. ‘Yes, yes, yes.’

Chapter 11

‘Mammy, why can’t I have a bed of me own?’

‘My, Megan; say
my
own, not me own.’

‘Mammy, why can’t I have a bed of
my
own?’ Megan repeated with a smirk.

‘Because we haven’t got the room.’

‘It could go in the corner.’

This was true, except it would leave no space to move around. ‘I can’t afford a new bed,’ Mollie said.

Megan pouted. ‘Joe and Tommy have beds of their own.’

‘That’s because they’re boys and they have a room to themselves.’ Mollie rolled her eyes in exasperation. ‘If I’ve had this argument with you once, Megan, I must have had it a million times. There isn’t the room to put a bed and, if there was, I haven’t the money to buy one.’

‘I’m fed up being kicked all night long.’

‘So am I and so is Brodie, but I’m afraid there’s nothing I can do about it.’ It was extremely uncomfortable sleeping three to a bed. They took turns: two at the top and one at the bottom, the worst place of all because you had two pairs of feet attacking you. This week it was Megan’s turn to sleep at the bottom, hence the demand for another bed.

‘It’s all right for us, Megan,’ Brodie said quietly. ‘All we have to do is go to school. Mammy has to look after Mr Pettigrew every morning and do lots of housework. She needs her sleep more than we do.’

Mr Pettigrew was a ninety-year-old curmudgeon. His fond granddaughter, Philomena, his only relative, didn’t like leaving him alone all day when she went to work. Another woman took over from Mollie at one o’clock and stayed until Philomena returned home.

‘Huh!’ Megan stalked out of the room, but Mollie knew she’d soon be back to say sorry.

She wiped her forehead with the back of her hand - the day was oppressively hot - and went into the parlour to make sure Joe and Tommy were all right playing in the street. Joe was very timid and easily bullied - once, he’d had his shoes stolen - but Tommy did his best to keep an eye on his elder brother. Four-year-old Tommy had taken to street life as if he’d been born to it, which he had in a way, as she’d been living in Turnpike Street when he’d arrived.

It was the school holidays and the street was full of kids, ranging from the clean to those who hadn’t seen soap and water for quite a while. Either they were overdressed in thick jerseys and trousers, quite unsuitable for the weather, or they wore hardly anything at all, just a pair of shorts or a skimpy frock. One boy wore wellies that were far too big and flopped against his pitifully bandy legs. Some women looked after their children as best they could, but others just gave up, not just on the children, but on themselves. Life was just one long, wretched struggle, as they tried to survive from one day to the next.

Her own boys were playing ‘tin can’ football with two lads of about the same age from the house opposite. It was the bigger lads who caused the trouble.

The sleeves on Joe’s shirt were much too short. It was time to turn it into a proper short-sleeved shirt. And Megan was growing out of her only decent summer frock and there was no more hem to let down. Mollie wondered if she could add a band of ribbon or a frill before Megan noticed her knees were showing and demanded a new frock. It was August; in a few weeks’ time the summer would be over and Megan and Joe would need warmer clothes when they returned to school in September.

She sighed. It meant a visit to Paddy’s Market and she resented dressing her children in other children’s cast-offs, although it had seemed fun when she and Agatha used to do it for themselves. Poor Brodie and Tommy were doubly unfortunate, as they inherited the cast-offs that Megan and Joe had grown out of. Not that Brodie seemed to mind, and Tommy had yet to start school and didn’t care what he wore.

Irene appeared with a shopping bag. She saw Mollie in the window, took out a package, and waved it exultantly. ‘Mince,’ she shouted. ‘Only a penny a pound in Maxwell’s.’

Mollie opened the door to let her in. ‘How old is it?’ she asked.

‘I didn’t ask, luv, but it looks quite fresh.’ She opened the package. The meat was more grey than pink. Maxwell’s butcher’s, known locally as Mucky Max’s, had a terrible reputation and was only frequented by the grindingly poor. It was rumoured that the rabbits they sold were, in all probability, cats. The first time Dandelion had disappeared, Mollie had a horrible feeling he’d ended up at Mucky Max’s, but Dandelion had returned quite safely. Now no one worried when he took off for long periods, apart from Brodie, who cried herself to sleep every night until he came back, fatter and more smug than when he’d left. Mollie could only assume he had two homes.

She looked doubtfully at the meat now, wondering what sort of animal it had been before being slaughtered and fed through the mincer. ‘I’d sooner not use it, Irene,’ she said. ‘I’ll make potato cakes for our tea.’

‘Oh, don’t be daft, Mollie,’ Irene said scathingly. ‘Growing kids need meat. It makes stronger bones. I’ll get the veg ready for a nice stew. I bought an onion while I was at it.’ She went into the kitchen, singing at the top of her voice.

Mollie returned to the parlour to keep an eye on the boys. Although she loved her mother-in-law, there were times when Irene set her teeth on edge. She didn’t want the children eating suspect meat; they weren’t so poor they needed to shop at Maxwell’s. They could at least afford fresh mincemeat from an identifiable animal. But, as usual, she’d given in, though it seemed cowardly to risk the family’s health rather than make an issue of it. The trouble was Irene was very touchy and there could easily have been a row, followed by a bad atmosphere for days.

She froze. A lad she’d never seen before had jumped on Joe’s back and seemed intent on dragging him to the ground, but was foiled by Tommy, who kicked his bottom with considerable force. The lad fell off and Tommy faced him, fists raised, an infant pugilist ready for a fight, but the attacker just wandered off, rubbing his behind.

Mollie smiled. Tommy wanted to be a bobby when he grew up, just like the dad he’d never known. Irene had shown her a photograph of Tom when he was a little boy and Tommy was so like him it made her want to cry. Irene made a desperate fuss of him. In her eyes, her youngest grandchild was another Tom and could do no wrong. She completely ignored the other children, except to criticize, in particular Megan, whom she didn’t appear to like. But Megan wasn’t prepared to be disliked without doing something about it. She turned against her grandma and didn’t hesitate to answer back whenever Irene said something that annoyed her. The first time this happened, Irene had slapped her and Megan had slapped her back. Mollie had given her a good telling-off, then done the same to her mother-in-law when there was no one else around.

‘You’re never,
never
to hit one of my children again,’ she said angrily. She was shaking inside. ‘If they need to be smacked,
I’ll
do it, not you.’

‘That Megan is a cheeky little madam,’ Irene said, just as angrily.

‘I know she is, but you must stop picking on her all the time, telling her to blow her nose, sit up straight, take her elbows off the table, walk not run, not speak until she’s spoken to. She’s only a little girl, Irene, an extremely irritating, arrogant little girl, but her heart’s in the right place.’

‘Mammy,’ Megan said from the door now. She came into the parlour, oozing martyrdom.

‘Yes, darlin’?’ She knew what was to come.

‘I don’t really want you to buy another bed. I know you can’t afford it and there isn’t the room. I don’t mind being kicked all night, honest.’

‘I know, love.’ Mollie held out her arms and Megan ran into them. ‘We’ll be able to afford a new bed one of these days, I promise.’

‘Why can’t Grandma turn the parlour into a bedroom? ’ Megan enquired in a slightly injured tone. ‘And she has a big bed and the biggest bedroom all to herself. It’s not fair. My friend Sheila Nelson sleeps in the parlour with her sister.’

Mollie didn’t answer. She’d often wondered the same thing herself. Perhaps Irene didn’t realize how uncomfortable they were, or she didn’t want to get rid of the over-stuffed settee that closely resembled a hippopotamus, the glass-fronted cabinet full of dishes that were never used - just like the parlour itself - or the piano that the children weren’t allowed to touch, though they did when Irene was out and Mollie didn’t stop them. They weren’t doing any harm and what was a piano for except to play?

‘Grandma’s making something really smelly in the kitchen,’ Megan whispered. ‘I hope it’s not for tea.’

Mollie groaned inwardly. ‘If it is, you must promise not to make a face when you eat it,’ she whispered back. ‘Pretend it’s really nice.’

 

‘Yuck!’ Megan pushed her plate away after the first mouthful. She made the most dreadful face imaginable. ‘It’s horrible.’ From his perch on the sideboard, Dandelion watched with interest, hoping for some scraps.

‘Eat it up this minute,’ Irene commanded. ‘There’s kids in this street who’d give their eye teeth for a stew like that.’

‘No, they wouldn’t.’ Megan turned away and managed to make an even worse face. ‘It tastes like worms.’

‘Megan—’ Irene began, but Mollie interrupted.

‘She’s right, Irene. It doesn’t taste very nice. What about you others, do you like it?’

Brodie and Joe shook their heads, but Tommy said, ‘I like worms,’ and shovelled a spoonful into his mouth.

‘There!’ Irene said triumphantly, as if this proved something.

Mollie removed Tommy’s plate. ‘You’re not to eat it, any of you. I’ll go and buy some fishcakes and chips.’ She couldn’t afford fish. ‘How about you, Irene? Would you like some?’

‘No, thanks. I’ll eat this.’ To Mollie’s horror, two huge tears were slowly making their way down the woman’s wrinkled cheeks. ‘I was only trying to do me best,’ she sobbed. ‘Trying to make up for the fact I don’t contribute a penny towards keeping this place going. You pay for everything, Mollie, even the rent, when you’ve already got four kids and yourself to feed. I thought it’d help if I made dead cheap meals.’ She sniffed tragically. ‘I’m a burden, aren’t I? A terrible burden. If it weren’t for you, I’d have to go on the parish.’